Sweet Sorrow(101)

Carefully, I lifted the latch on the gate and, looking both ways, stepped into the front garden. Transported to fifties America, I had an absolute compulsion to throw small stones at the window. From the rose bed, I selected a marble-sized ball of soil and tossed it at the window, the local bad boy. Another, and one more— ‘Can I help you?’

‘Hello, Mrs Fisher!’

Wholesome and healthy, Fran’s mother wore gardening gloves and a green apron, a small pruning saw in one hand, branches in another.

‘Hello, who are you?’

‘I’m Charlie. I’m a friend of Fran’s.’

‘Okay. Hello, Charlie.’ She blew at her hair, which was sticking to her forehead with sweat. ‘You can knock on the door, you know. It’s pretty much the same thing.’

‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

‘I think this is more disturbing, if anything.’ Some time passed. ‘She came in very late last night.’

‘She did?’

‘Yes; you don’t know anything about that, do you?’

‘No. No.’

‘Well she’s not here, Charlie.’

‘Okay.’

‘She’s at the fête.’

‘Okay.’

‘I think she’s hiding. She’s not in our good books, you see.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘…’

‘Well. Nice to meet you, Charlie.’

‘Yes, you too.’

‘Next time, just knock.’

‘I will,’ I said, and hurried back along the lane to the church.

‘It’s fifty pence to come in,’ said the lady at the entrance. In my pocket, I felt the rattle of keys but no change.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve got no cash.’

The lady frowned and, sensing my bad boy reputation, the man next to her leant in. ‘It is for charity!’

‘I know, I just left home without any cash.’

The man shook his head slowly, but there was no security protocol for forced entry to a village fête. I walked on through.

‘Hello? Hey you,’ said the lady. Would they come after me? Tackle me to the ground?

‘I’ll pay you back! I just have to …’

I disappeared into the crowd – this was quite some fête – quickly checking the tombola, the house-plant sale, the cake stall, until I saw her, seated behind a trestle table of second-hand books, reading the back of an orange Penguin. She looked up, saw me, smiled, then removed the smile.

‘Hello, Charlie.’

‘Hi there.’ We spoke across the table of books.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I had to see you, I’m sorry.’

‘You look terrible.’

‘I have to explain.’

‘Yes, you do have to explain.’

‘I know, I’m sorry.’

‘Fucking hell, Charlie! Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?’

‘I know!’ I had a joke in my pocket …

‘Polly’s furious, even Bernard’s furious. My parents hit the roof.’

‘Did they?’ If I produced the joke at just the right time …

‘Why do you think I’m here? Anything’s better than that.’

I laid it down.

‘Fête worse than death.’

‘What?’

‘Fête worse than – can we go somewhere?’

‘I said I’d watch the stall.’

‘Just for a minute.’

Fran sighed, then stepped across to the neighbouring stall and after some bargaining, she was free to leave.

‘So, tell me.’

‘What else could I do? I couldn’t just abandon you, I thought you’d worry.’

‘And I did worry! I did, but I’m in such trouble, Charlie. You do look terrible.’

‘I’ve not slept. Or eaten.’

‘What are you wearing?’

‘I borrowed it. My other stuff had too much blood on it.’

‘Blood! What? Charlie, what happened?’

‘Let’s find somewhere.’

We sat between the tent pegs in the shadow of the refreshment marquee. I’d spent the night rehearsing an account that was both truthful and distorted, and she listened silently, hands in lap, eyes fixed on her feet until I leant forwards and unveiled the bandages. She gasped gratifyingly, but the sympathy was not enough to cancel out an uncomfortable truth.

‘But … you were stealing the money?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And now you’re being prosecuted?’

‘Maybe. Don’t know yet.’

‘Wow. Okay. Okay.’ She took my hand again. ‘I’m sorry. That’s tough.’

‘It was a mistake.’

‘To steal it? Or get caught?’

‘Both, obviously,’ I said, then, as gently as possible, ‘Fucking hell, Fran. I don’t need that from you too.’

‘No, I know. I’m sorry.’

We sat, looking straight ahead. Through the canvas of the tent behind us, we could hear the raffle being called – ‘It’s a blue ticket, number 443. 443, for this beautiful doll’s house’ – to shouts and cheers. Silent, we sat through the bottle of champagne, the hamper, the selection of preserves, a leg of local lamb, a voucher for a cut and blow dry at Scissors, and I felt a terrific sadness at how we’d come to this in the space of one day, unable to speak or to look at each other, the only contact between us the consolation of her head, cricked awkwardly against my shoulder.